River of the Dead
by Laiqualaurelote
Summary: (Amelia Peabody) The Emersons set off again - this time on an unearthly quest to rescue the Gods of Egypt. Surviving the dangers of the Duat and hunting four dangerous enemies through the underworld, what awaits them on the River of the Dead?
1. Council of the Gods

**The River of the Dead**

Author's Note: This was written because of my love of the Amelia Peabody series, and because I think that Fanfiction is sadly lacking in fanfics of this series. It was also because of my deep fascination with the characters in these books, particularly that of Sethos. To straighten my priorities, I worship Sethos, adore Nefret, love Bastet, admire Ramses, respect Abdullah, like Emerson, am amused by Amelia, blink at Margaret, beam at Sir Edward and am frankly puzzled by Maryam. Yes, I worship Sethos. I really do. Any of my classmates would prove this point, and add several complaints about the nectarine abuse.

This fic is set in the in-between of Lord of the Silent and The Golden One. It involves the sort of thing that Emerson generally scoffs at – religion and the afterlife. I hope my research on these topics (in particular the tedious travelling through the archaic pages of the Book of the Dead – which in a way reminds me of Lit. classes with Mrs. See) is sufficient to prevent me from making awful Egyptology bloopers. Excuse me if I do.

I own none of the characters. The AP characters are owned by MPM (bless her soul), the Mummy characters by Stephen Sommers (bless his) and the gods own themselves. No one could argue with that.

**1. The Council of the Gods**

Suddenly, there was darkness. The darkness of Nothing.

The darkness of Nothing was inexorable. It consumed, and it devoured. And yet, they were here, all of them – in this Void of Nothing, trapped in the everlasting darkness, with no connection to the outside world, no way to escape.

"What shall we do now?"

The voice rang out in the Void. The Nothing cleared slightly – only slightly! – to make way for Something – the figure of a God.

Amun-Re brought light and let it flood the clearing he had made in the Nothing. He dared not let his powers extend any further. "Where are you all? Speak!"

One by one, the other gods and goddesses made their appearances, fighting through the Nothing. They came to stand at attention about their lord Amun-Re. Most seemed quizzical, some in despair.

"What is happening?" asked the man in the white robes and the White Crown of Egypt. Osiris, God of the Underworld, did not take kindly to being ousted from his domain. "Where are we? This is not the Halls of Ma'at."

"No." Re's voice was heavy. "This is nowhere in the land of Khem or the Khert-neter. This is the Void."

There was more silence, as the assembly of Egyptian deities took that in.

"The Void?" Isis, wife of Osiris, sounded very puzzled. "How did we get here, then? And why can we not leave?"

More silence, and then the tittering in the audience rose when they realised that Re, their Great Lord, knew not the answer.

"I think I know why."

Heads turned towards the speaker – the god with the ibis head and the writing tablet. Thoth looked apprehensive, and not without reason. "I know how we were transported here. It was the spell in the Book of Thoth. My book," he added, somewhat bitterly.

"So," pressed the jackal-headed Anubis, "some _mortal_ found your book _again_? And read the spell that would open the Void and trap us in it?"

"Not a mortal," corrected Thoth. "A spirit. One of the Sentenced Dead."

"I thought they were sentenced," pointed out Osiris. "_I_ sentenced them."

"They escaped," said Anubis.

Now the heads turned to him. "_What_?"

The jackal-headed god looked apologetic. "Truly, I was not aware of it until a few moments ago. I did not inform you, because I thought it was only a small breach – that I should be able to capture the escaped souls easily. I – "

"Which ones escaped?" interrupted Osiris.

Anubis swallowed. "Imhotep."

"Not again!" exclaimed over half a dozen gods.

"And not only Imhotep," went on Anubis. "His lover. Anck-su-namun. Their servant Lock-Nah. And another – another who had not been Sentenced yet. Perhaps she aided the Sentenced ones in escaping."

Re's lordly brow furrowed. "I thought we had seen the last of Imhotep's escape attempts, after we committed his soul to the care of Amnet. So he took the Book of Thoth."

Thoth nodded. "It was he who cast the spell that trapped us all in here."

"Why?" asked Horus.

Thoth shook his head. "I know not. Perhaps he means to take over our places and rule the Duat – impossible for a mere mortal dead, or even four of them. He has not even any great army, like the last time he stole yours, Anubis."

More silence, as the gods pondered this.

Then Anubis spoke up again. It might be that he was determined to have someone else to blame beside himself. "How did he steal the Book? I thought that after the Setna affair you took the Book out of the mortal world into your own personal library. Was it not in good enough care there?"

For once, Thoth did not answer. Instead, his eyes moved uneasily to the goddess standing by his side. She too was holding a writing tablet, but her fingers had frozen over the reed, and her hand was shaking. The seven-pointed star on her forehead trembled as a shadow passed over her face. Then suddenly, she dropped the tablet and flung herself at the feet of Re.

"The fault is mine, O Lord!" she cried. "It was through my carelessness, my lack of thought, that we are here! I was the one guarding the Library; I was the one who let the priest pass without looking into his true identity! The fault is mine! Punish me if you will!"

Thoth dropped his own writing tablet and knelt down beside the prostrate figure. "Seshat, cease this. You cannot blame yourself only."

The goddess of writing lifted a tear-stained face to Re, who sighed. "My child, your husband speaks true. We can blame not but one person for this misfortune. Let us not cast fingers of blame at each other, but try to think of a way to escape the Void."

Seshat, helped to her feet by Thoth, stepped back into the crowd of deities. There was a general hum of power in the air, as everyone used their own powers to try and push their way out of the dimension of the Void. Eventually they gave it up.

"It is in vain," sighed Re. "All our powers combined are only enough to send one or two of the weaker ones through. We need help from outside the Void."

"Then let us send a messenger," suggested Horus. "Mortal heroes have helped in our work before – let them help us this time. You said we have enough power to send one lesser god through. Let him or her bring our message to our saviours."

"Good idea," mused Re. "But you know the dangers of this. The one being sent through is in great danger of being blasted into oblivion. Who shall then be the one to be our messenger to the outside?"

An uneasy muttering and shifting of feet. Finally, one deigned to step forward.

"I shall go," announced Seshat. "I still think it is my fault."

A ripple of approval rang through the assembled. Evidently most of them agreed.

"Very well," consented Re. "Then whom shall we call upon to free us?"

The gods and goddesses discussed this among themselves, with much muttering. Horus raised his falcon's head from where he had been conversing animatedly with his wife Hathor, and called out: "I say we choose Akhu el-Afareet."

"If we choose him," interrupted Hathor in her lovely ringing voice, "we must choose his lady too – Nur Misur."

"Why not choose his whole family?" said Osiris deprecatingly. "They are all able. His father Abu Shitaim, his mother Sitt Hakim…"

"His uncle."

The voice was not one that was often heard in the assembly of the gods. It was a voice regarded with dislike and enmity – particularly Osiris. One does not usually feel kindly towards an individual who has cut you up and scattered your remnants across Egypt, even if that individual was your own brother.

Seth seemed significantly unaware of the glares fixed upon his person. "I say we choose his uncle. The Man of a Hundred Faces and a Thousand Names – he has worked for me before, and think you not it fitting that he go upon this quest with them? He is skilled in many ways."

Re frowned, but slowly he nodded. "You speak well, O Seth. There is wisdom in your words – that we have rarely seen when you speak them." Seth bowed his head at the light reproach. "We shall choose his uncle too. That makes five."

Seshat spoke up in a trembling voice. "But…but if you choose him – then the Secrets-Seeker will follow."

"The Secrets-Seeker is of no consequence," said Re. "If she wishes to follow, then so be it. They shall decide what to do with her when they find out."

Hathor smiled. It was a secret smile, one that hid a secret pleasure.

"Very well," said Re. "We are set. Seshat, you shall be sent into the Egypt of mortals. Convince them that they must return with you. Tell them to sail the River of the Dead – teach them the spell they need to open the Void."

"And what if they will not come, my lord?"

Seth strode forward abruptly. He took Seshat's limp hand, shoved an object into it and closed her other hand above it. "Show this to my servant. He will come."

Seshat bit her lip and nodded.

Thoth helped her draw the seven-pointed star in the middle of the Nothing, and she stepped into it. The other gods began to chant, to force their own diverse powers through the Nothing, through the Void…

In the depths of the Nothing, something stirred.

"Quiet!" hissed Re. "IT does not know we are here. But if IT hears us, we are too weak to fight IT. And then IT will come for us…"

Seshat clutched her wand and willed herself not to show fear. She was a goddess. Goddesses did not show fear.

The power was now palpable, cutting swathes through the Nothing. Seshat could feel the tension tearing at her, sucking her backwards…

A hole opened up in the Nothing for a single breath – the tiniest pinpoint of light. There was a wild whirling sound, the sound of a desert storm, and there was shrieking and hissing and the sound of a whipping wind –

And she was through.

* * *

She hit the pavement with such force that she thought her skull must have cracked. She could feel a tendril of blood creeping down her lip – it only showed how much the passage had weakened her, a goddess would not have bled so easily –

Pavement?

She raised her head. She was lying on a dusty pavement in the midst of a bustle of morning traffic. This was the Egypt of mortals. She was here.

She did not have very much time, though. Soon she would have to return to the Void.

She got to her feet and smoothed her leopard-skin robe out. After putting out a hand to steady the star headdress, she took her wand in a firm grip and began walking down the street.

No one seemed to notice her. At least some part of her dwindling powers remained.

She knew that Akhu el-Afareet must not be far away, or they would not have sent her here. She turned a corner and walked into one of the busy suks. So many people – and yet she knew she would recognize him once she set eyes on him.

There.

Seshat froze. There he was – and Nur Misur also. What luck! They had not seen her. They must. She must speak with them.

She ran forward. She saw him look up, glance in her direction, and then pause also, to take a better look.

He had seen her. She must call him. And so she cried out the name that they called him in this world.

"Ramses!"

**End of Chapter**


	2. Parisian Perplexity

**River of the Dead**

Author's Note: I am elated. Because at Jurong East Library I at last found the missing link in the series – Curse of the Pharaohs. Oh, I love Jurong East.

I have five reviewers, and I thank these lovely people from the bottom of my heart. Three of these people have never read AP before, so it must be undying loyalty to my humble self that made them plunge into the depths of an unknown fandom. Bless them.

**Manveri Mirkiel: **You like. Good you like. I thought I would find you at Jurong East – but I didn't. How did you celebrate Cormallë? We watched Return of the King in honour of the event. Twice.

**Telpelote: **Don't _you_ dearie me, you object. _I_ dearie you. You misspelled 'find'. I did think at least you would be able to understand the mythological implications……

**Reicheruu: **I AM updating all of them. I have! I knew you'd be cross – Squishy was crosser, you know. She actually flew at me and poked me.

**Dream Descends: **Oh yes! Another fan across the world – you wrote that SethosMargaret fic. It was the first AP fic I'd ever read on this website, and I liked it so – although I don't really agree with your opinion on their relationship. I suppose I said that in the review. But am I happy you reviewed. And yes, this is to be a multi-chaptered epic. I want to spread the AP joy.

**Sapphire Dragon: **Did I convince you to read AP? I did? Oh, god. I am ecstatic. Thank you, thank you. That was the _point_ of this, in the first place – to get other people to read this wonderful series. And you're actually going to _buy_ the books because of _me_. I feel…tearful. Thank you so much.

Irrelevantly, Rukuelle and I are playing AP Survivor now. We have gone from twenty people and two tribes to ten people in one tribe (Amelia, Emerson, Ramses, Nefret, David, Sethos, Sir Edward, Cyrus, Selim and a tad surprisingly, Margaret. She survived two tie-votes.) You can cheer your favourite character on.

Back to relevance. This fic shall be told through different points-of-views in manuscript. The main narrative is _Narrative A_ (Amelia P. Emerson's journal), but other PoVs shall be supplied by _Manuscript H_ (Ramses's personal version, with occasional additions from Nefret. I've always wondered what H stands for. Hidden?), _Manuscript Collection M _(Margaret M. Minton's memoirs. How alliterative), and two other manuscripts I invented specifically for this purpose, _Manuscript S _(Sethos's secret scribblings. I love alliteration) and lastly _Manuscript O _(for Outsider or Other: told through the eyes of Imhotep and Co.)

I don't own anything. If I owned Sethos, I'm sure you'd all hear about it. The education system would teach only intrepid disguise and nectarine-punching. Everything belongs to MPM and/or the Gods of Egypt. Shall now proceed, _inshallah_.

**2. Parisian Perplexity**

_Manuscript H_

"What do you think, dear?"

The question startled him out of his reverie. He had fallen into it by staring at her; admiring his wife had become a strange habit of his. Her red-gold curls caught the Egyptian sun and glimmered – and the cornflower-blue eyes set like live and laughing gems in their nest of gold. She was like a lissom flower that had sprung in the dust and the dirt of the suks. And as it happened every time, he felt his heart quicken.

"What do you think?" repeated Nefret. "Is it a fake?"

Walter Peabody Emerson – or more familiarly, Ramses – took the scarab from his wife's hand. Turning it over and inspecting it with a trained eye, he pronounced his verdict. "Fake. The hieroglyphics are not skilfully done. And it's the wrong dynasty, anyway."

"I thought so." Nefret retrieved it and replaced it on the stall. She smiled at the toothless owner, before shaking her head and drawing away. As they moved off down through the busy, squabbling crowd of the Khan el-Khalili, her hand sought his, and hand-in-hand they wandered through the suks beneath the noon-day Egyptian sun.

To any tourist's eye it would seem a charming, innocent occupation: shopping for souvenirs in the sprawling bazaars. But the native stallholders knew better; the Brother of Demons and the Light of Egypt prowled the suks in their everlasting effort to keep track of the illegal antiquities trade. Fakes were common enough and all very well, but any sight of a precious treasure kept in illicit darkness, and Ramses and Nefret would be on it in a second. It was a game they played with the antiquities traders of the Khan el-Khalili – a tricky, treacherous game. Over the years, Ramses had learnt to be as nimble a player as his parents, in order to extract the necessary information – and even better, the antiquity itself – from the reluctant trader.

They turned a corner and moved down another crowded alley, stopping every so often for Ramses to exchange words and a couple of coins with the beggars lining the streets. The Brother of Demons had acquaintances in the strangest of places; the most useful information source he had.

It was a lovely day, thought Ramses, and more importantly, it was a peaceful day. Those didn't come around very often. Their family seemed to attract trouble like honey attracts flies. But today was an exception; no dead bodies turning up on the dig, no agents from the War Office pestering him to go on another mission, and best of all, no one trying to kill them. Just him and Nefret, out on a stroll with nothing on their minds.

It was the perfect sort of situation for something new and awful to crop up.

It was the perfect sort of situation for the Gods of Egypt to throw them a new challenge, he thought.

He of course meant that metaphorically. So when they did it literally, he was really quite annoyed.

* * *

He was just discussing a couple of eighteenth-dynasty statues with a Nubian merchant when someone called his name.

It wasn't Nefret – he could tell Nefret's voice apart a million miles away. It was someone further up the street.

"Ramses!"

His second thought was that it might be another of his annoying admirers – the ones he thought he'd already shaken off when he got married, but they clung on like burs – and he braced himself for an attack.

Then he saw the person who was calling his name.

She wasn't anyone he knew. She didn't even look distinctly like someone who should be in this time period. She was wearing what appeared to be a leopard-skin gown and a star-shaped headdress, and she was waving a seven-pointed star wand. She looked highly distressed.

She looked a lot like the Egyptian goddess Seshat.

The Seshat-lookalike came panting up to him, waving that wand of hers. "Ramses! Brother of Demons!" she was saying between gasps of breath. "I need your help!"

"What?" said Ramses in confusion.

The Nubian merchant stared at him. "You were saying, Brother of Demons?"

"Sorry," muttered Ramses. "I was talking to the lady here…"

The merchant looked puzzled. "To your distinguished wife? But she is on this side."

"Not her!" exclaimed Ramses. He felt like going mad. "_This_ one. The one in the leopard-skin."

The merchant glanced up and down the street. "There is no leopard-skin clad lady here, Brother of Demons."

It then struck Ramses that the merchant – and everybody else, to that point – could not see the strange intruder. He _was_ going mad, then.

"I apologise," Ramses told the merchant hurriedly. "I have business to see to." He turned to speak to the lady dressed up as Seshat – but she was gone. Looking up, he saw her weaving through the crowd, occasionally looking over her shoulder and calling to him. "Ramses! Follow me!"

Ramses weighed his choices. She might be leading him into an ambush. But then, she might have something important to say. In the end, curiosity won over, and he began weaving through the crowd, after her.

"Ramses?" Nefret was on his heels. "Where are you going?"

He wondered how to explain something she couldn't see to her. "There's this woman in a leopard-skin…she keeps asking me to follow her…" God, he did sound mad.

Nefret gave him a funny look. "Oh, God," he groaned. "The thing is, no one else seems to be able to see her."

"But I can," said Nefret.

Ramses almost stopped dead. "What? You can?" Then he recovered himself. "Oh. That's good, then."

They ducked into a less crowded alleyway. The woman was waiting there for them. "Greetings, O Brother of Demons – "

"Who are you?" interrupted Ramses, a tad rudely. "What do you want?"

The woman flinched slightly. "I am Seshat."

"Seshat? The goddess?"

She nodded. "The gods have sent me here. They send their greetings to you, O noble Akhu el-Afareet, to your fair and gracious wife Nur Misur, to your great and glorious father Abu Shitaim and your distinguished lady mother Sitt Hakim – and to your uncle…" she seemed to fumble for an Egyptian title, and gave it up "…the Master Criminal. We desperately beg your help."

Ramses was feeling a trifle dazed. He opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't seem to find anything more intelligent than "I beg your pardon?"

Beside him, Nefret was staring open-mouthed. She remembered her manners and shut it. "Are you all right?" she asked. "Your lip is bleeding."

Seshat – if she was really Seshat, that remained to be ascertained – touched her split lip. "I know. It should not be so. But I am only here – and bleeding – because there is no other choice. You must help us. Amun-Re has chosen you to be our mortal hero."

The words continued to make no sense whatsoever. Ramses mouthed several words, but the only one that got voice was: "_Amun-Re_?"

Seshat began to explain the situation. "The other gods are trapped in the Void, by a spell cast by an evil priest and his minions. They need a mortal – a group of mortals – to free them. You and your family are the chosen ones."

Ramses got over his shock. "Prove it."

"Prove what?" asked Seshat. The frightened look came back into her eyes.

"Prove that you are a goddess."

Seshat stared at him. "But I am. I am. Truly. I seem to have lost most of my powers, you see, when I broke through the Void – although I think I am still invisible to most eyes, but that is a common trait. You _must_ believe me."

There_ was_ the invisibility thing – but she could have bribed the merchant and any number of people to pretend not to notice her. Ramses shook his head.

Seshat emitted a little cry and flung herself at his feet. Ramses started back, but she hung on. "Please! For the sake of the gods and all Egypt, believe me!"

Nefret bent down and disentangled her firmly. "You are hysterical," she told Seshat.

Seshat staggered back out of Nefret's grasp. Her eyes travelled over their faces. "You don't believe me," she whispered. "You don't." She shut her eyes and clenched her fists. "Oh, help me. _Thoth help me_!"

It took them both by surprise. Ramses only had the time to seize Nefret's arm before they were both blasted backwards through the street, through the city, through space and time. Seshat stood motionless before them, but yet it was she who was moving them faster than a _khamsin_ wind. Wisps of air darted around her. To Ramses's perplexed eye they seemed to take the shape of flying ibises.

And all of a sudden, they stopped. The two of them fell backwards and struck a wall. Painfully.

Seshat rose to her feet slowly. "It _did_ work," she whispered in disbelief. "It _did_. I didn't expect it to…"

Ramses had her pinned to the wall with both hands wrapped around her neck in a flash. "What have you done?" he hissed. "Where are we?"

"I don't know!" squeaked Seshat, clearly terrified. "We are not in Egypt any more, that is all I can tell you."

"I can see that." It did not improve his temper. "What do you mean, you don't know?"

It was definitely not Egypt. The alleyway was no longer walled by slums and battered bazaar stalls – instead both walls were made of stone. It wasn't as hot.

Nefret's hand snaked into her pocket. The pocket was actually open at the back, and allowed easy access to the knife strapped to her lower limb. In a single fluid moment she drew it. Hiding it in the folds of her skirt, she stepped forward cautiously, edging towards the street the alleyway opened out into. Ramses dropped the so-called goddess and followed.

It was a boulevard of some sorts. People were strolling up and down it – not Egyptians, but Europeans: well-dressed men, and women clad in elegant gowns and clutching parasols and handbags. The street was lined with shops and pretty little restaurants.

Nefret slid her knife back slowly. "This is certainly _not_ Egypt."

Ramses was swivelling slowly, making a survey of the surroundings. His eyes fixed upon one building in the distance and stopped there. He pointed wordlessly. Nefret turned and saw it too. Her mouth dropped open.

The Eiffel Tower rose above the city in all its iron splendour. The skyline was that of a neat, urban metropolis. The only disturbance were the dust clouds on the horizon – distant evidence that World War I was still raging somewhere else in France.

"We're in Paris," announced Ramses.

Nefret said something vehemently. It was Nubian. It was probably also very vulgar.

"So," she said sweetly and dangerously, turning to Seshat, who had just emerged from the alley looking like a mouse in cat kingdom, "_why_ did you bring us here?"

"Because there is someone who will believe me here," replied Seshat tremulously.

"And who is this…_believer_?" asked Ramses sarcastically.

"Your uncle."

Both Ramses and Nefret gaped at her. "_What_?"

Ramses was the first to recover. His face regained its usual pharaonic impassivity. "Why would Sethos believe you? He doesn't believe in – well, in most things."

Seshat bit her lip again, which only served to enhance the bleeding that had already been started. "Se – _someone_ told me he would. I can only but try. The spell was supposed to bring us to him, but he is not here. Do you know where he is?"

"No one knows where Sethos is most of the time," Ramses answered in exasperation. "I don't know whether to believe you – except that nothing short of magic could have brought us from Cairo to Paris like _that_. Unless I'm dreaming, of course."

"You are not," snapped Nefret. "Because then I'm having the same dream."

"Do you believe me now?" inquired Seshat.

Ramses glared at her. "If Sethos is really here, I might be well on my way to doing that."

Nefret took his arm. "We don't seem to be going back to Cairo in a hurry, so we might as well look for your beloved uncle in the meantime."

"He is not beloved," muttered Ramses, but permitted himself to be let across the street. "We can start in the café just opposite – that's as good a place as any, and I want something to drink."

The aforementioned café seemed to be a high-class establishment. The patrons were even better-dressed than the majority of the strollers. Nefret reached up and adjusted Ramses' tie critically. "You'll pass muster," she concluded, and turned to Seshat. "I hope you are invisible."

"So do I," murmured Seshat.

They entered the café, and were directed to a table for two in the corner. Seshat immediately melted into the shadows, although she had said no one else could see her. Ramses, for lack of something better to think of, ordered tea in his impeccable French.

They sipped that genial beverage and scrutinised the smattering of other customers. Ramses had to admit that the prospects were not promising – some sombre-looking gentlemen, a couple young chaps, four or five varied ladies. Anyone of them could be Sethos. Anyone.

"Well?" asked Nefret in a well-bred whisper.

Ramses shrugged enigmatically. "Can't tell. Look for the more outrageous ones – his disguises tend to border on the romantic side."

"And yours don't?" There was an amused twinkle in her cornflower eyes.

Ramses grinned back. "I'm practical. Filthy and practical."

He was discreetly observing a couple two tables away – a gentleman and a lady. The lady was not young, but she was doing her best to cover the fact: the latest fashion in hats and gowns, brilliantly rouged cheeks and lips, hair piled high and elegant. It was hard for Ramses to lip-read – she was delicately screening her face with the fan – but she seemed to be flirting with the gentleman opposite her in her husky, amused voice.

The gentleman did not look French – the bare snatches of conversation told Ramses he had something of an English accent. He was wearing a top hat, despite the fact that those were not in this season, and had tinted glasses and long, bushy whiskers. He spoke in a low tone – almost as if he did not want to be overheard.

Ramses returned calmly to his tea and leaned across the table to Nefret. "Make it look like we're having a conversation."

Nefret caught his subtle glance at the other couple and understood. She bent over to him across the steaming teacup. "You have your eye on them?"

"It would seem so." Ramses took a careful sip of tea. "And the gentleman seems to be rather suspicious – so we should be safer as casual passerbys, even if he's not my beloved uncle. One good thing about France is anonymity. At least here we're not recognised by every passing street urchin."

"Mm," said Nefret agreeably. "What do you think of her?"

"The lady?"

"No. I was referring to Seshat."

"Well, for a goddess, she seems pretty flighty."

"At least she's not trying to do the omnipotent-almighty act."

"You don't believe in her tale, then."

"Experience, Ramses dear. Don't believe unless you have proof. Isn't that always what Mother says?"

"She _would_. And don't talk to me about experience. I should think I have a lot more than you."

Nefret made a dismissive gesture of contempt. "They're leaving, you know."

"I know." Out of the corner of his eye, Ramses saw both of them rise. The gentleman raised the lady's hand to his lips…and then, Ramses saw it, so fast that he only caught a glimpse, but……

Nefret must have seen him stiffen, because her eyes instantly clouded with worry. "What is it?"

Abruptly Ramses rose from his seat. The two had left already. They paid the bill in a hurry, and followed.

They entered the street just in time to see the lady inconspiciously drop her handkerchief, and the gentleman discreetly stoop to pick it up and tuck it into his breast pocket.

"Don't stop," whispered Ramses, and arm-in-arm they walked past the gentleman without a second glance. Nefret would have glanced back, but Ramses nudged her sharply, eliciting a little gasp. They crossed the street, in the direction of the alleyway from which they had first emerged.

"Why did you – " began Nefret indignantly, when suddenly someone pushed Ramses away from her and pinned him against the wall, not unalike the way he had pinned Seshat earlier.

Ramses gasped for air. The hand around histhroat was like iron – this was a powerful opponent. He clenched his fist and lashed out with it, in a blow that could have toppled a camel.

Another hand grabbed his wrist and forced it back. "You don't want to be doing that, Ramses," said a familiar voice.

He was released. Winded, Ramses took several deep breaths, and focused on his attacker. She had cocked her head and was grinning at him. Yes, she. It was the lady from the café.

She turned her grin onto Nefret, who was poised like a Fury, knife at the ready. "You can put that away, my dear. I do apologise if my little joke offended you."

The looks, the gestures, the gait – they were all those of a high-class, well-bred lady. The voice was someone else's.

"It _did_ offend me!" exclaimed Nefret. The relief in her voice was too tangible for her to sound really cross. "And that is a _hideous_ wig."

Sethos ran his fingers through the dark blonde curls and yanked the whole contraption off, along with the hat. "That's very unkind, my dear. Who is your lady friend?"

Ramses had almost forgotten about Seshat in the confusion. The fact that Sethos could see her was rather surprising – but then, she probably would allow him to. "She claims she's an Egyptian goddess."

"I _am_ an Egyptian goddess!" exclaimed Seshat indignantly. She pushed forward till she was almost face to face with Sethos. "I am Seshat of the Nedjer, and I come on behalf of the Gods of Egypt. _Set_ sent me. _Set_ asked for you." She whipped something out of her robes and shoved it nearly in Sethos's face.

Ramses had never seen the colour drain from Sethos's face faster. Under the face paint he went milky pallid. He snatched the object from Seshat's hand and examined it with keen horror. It was a message scarab, carved from some sort of blood-reddish stone. Ramses recognised one of the larger hieroglyphs as that creature known as the Set animal (it had long, squared ears, a long, downturned snout, a canine body and an erect tail – and bore an uncanny resemblance to an aardvark). It was too dim for him to easily read the other signs – but apparently Sethos could.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sethos's head snapped up, and he fixed Seshat with a glare like one would transfix a beetle with a pin. "What is this about?" Seshat opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off. "On second thoughts, not here. I'd forgotten that I'm still in enormous danger here – and since you're with me, so are all of you." He put the wig under one arm and marched off down the alley. The three of them followed.

"What are you doing in France?" inquired Ramses boldly. "Spy business?"

"What did you think?" Sethos's voice floated back to him. His uncle turned a corner and headed off down an even darker alleyway. "It's a temporary assignment, of course – they think the situation in the Sudan is stable at the moment, so they carted me off here."

"As a woman?" Nefret sounded highly amused.

"Remember Mrs. Fortescue? Well, Madame de Fontaine is her French counterpart. Same story – war widow, wealthy, eligible. They found out she was a German spy last month, and they, er, removed her. But then they decided it was too good an opportunity to waste, so they sent an impostor to her rendezvous to pick up her messages."

"Didn't they have any women?"

"You know the sort of women theWar Officehires. Only good for the seduction business. Not a patch on me in the disguise field." Sethos stopped ahead of them and glanced back. "I think we're a good distance away." Peeling off his gloves, he extracted the piece of paper that Ramses had seen the gentleman pass to the lady when he kissed her hand. Sethos read through it twice, consigned it to memory andate the evidence. After that, he proceeded to change, and explain in between.

"So for the last two weeks I've been masquerading as a Frenchwoman, picking up German secret data and passing them false information." He divested himself of the long gown and folded it up neatly. "Got to take good care of the costume. It's on loan."

"From a lady friend?" quipped Nefret.

Sethos scowled at her. "From a dressmaker." He was wearing shirt and trousers underneath. Ramses, who had never tried wearing full ladies' dress, could only imagine how hot it must be in all those layers. Sethos stuffed the dress, wig and shoes into a bag which he had produced from nowhere and began to clean off the makeup carefully with a wet handkerchief.

Ramses, who was leaning against the alley wall, asked casually: "So. When is your next appointment?"

"This was the last one." Sethos stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and applied a dark moustache. He began feeling in his pockets. "Damn nose. Lost it again. Anyway, after this Madame was supposed to mysteriously disappear, and I would be back in good old Egypt again." He put on his jacket and abruptly strode off down the alley, plunging through the network of Parisian back streets with alarming alacrity. Ramses stumbled after him.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere," muttered Sethos evasively. "We need to talk, Seshat and I. We're still not safe here."

"You have friends in France?"

"Not really." They returned back into the light – this time another district, less well-to-do, and more noisy. Sethos wove in and out of the crowd with ease. "You know France isn't my specialty. Actually, apart from the War Office people, I have only one other acquaintance in this city."

"And who is that?"

"You do ask a lot of questions." Sethos was evasive again. He stopped at a nearby flower stall and picked out a bunch of roses. For a man in a hurry, he certainly took his time counting them.

Nefret's eyebrows soared in comprehension. "_Oh_. Oh!"

"What?" asked Ramses irritably. Sethos thanked the florist in his perfect French accent and was off again.

"Did you offend her, or something?" asked Nefret, running to keep on Sethos's heels.

"I don't know who you're talking about," said Sethos loftily. He stopped again. They were in a street lined with small apartment flats. Sethos began counting flats and muttering to himself. Then he dove into a doorway and disappeared.

"What was it you found out?" called Ramses as Nefretraced through the door and sprinted up the winding stairs after Sethos.

"Fifteen roses means you're sorry!" came the merry answer.

Ramses had always wondered how Nefret knew these things. He supposed it came in the package with being a woman.

They skidded to a stop outside Flat No. 13, and Ramses swore he saw a look of apprehension pass over his uncle's face. It disappeared as quickly as it came. Ramses backed up behind Sethos. He could feel Nefret and Seshat leaning around either of his shoulders.

For a moment, everything was silent. In the silence there came the sounds of the life of the person living in the flat beyond the door. It was a low muttering – accompanied by the intermittent clacking of a typewriter.

Sethos took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

The clacking stopped, punctuated with an exclamation of "Oh, damn it!" Then the sound of footsteps stamping across to the door, which was flung open.

In the doorway stood a woman whom Ramses recognised. She was not exactly young – perhaps thirty going on forty. Her hair was jet black, and at the moment it was straggling rebelliously out of the chignon she had tried to pin it up into. She was dressed rather smartly in a brown and cream walking gown, but she seemed to be extremely irritated at being called away. "I said, I don't want room service! I want to finish this manuscript by today, and I can't do it if you keep coming up and insisting on cleaning……" She broke off as she recognised exactly _who_ it was.

Her face underwent a series of mouthings, along with a look of abject horror. "You! Not you! What are _you_ doing here?"

Sethos had inserted himself into the doorway so that she could not shut it without shoving him bodily out. He was leaning upon the doorframe, and wearing that particularly winsome smile that he reserved for, as Nefret called it, 'turning on the charm'. It was on full blast.

"Hello, Margaret. Don't mind if we come in?"

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming… _**An Unexpected Interruption**

In which Seshat finds a sympathetic listener at long last, Ramses embraces superstition and Margaret gets herself a new scoop.


	3. An Unexpected Interruption

**River of the Dead**

Author's Note: Sethos was voted out of AP Survivor last week. I'm miserable.

**Telpelote: **You haven't read the Golden One yet (actually you're reading now while I update, but never mind) so I forgive you for that comment.

**Dream Descends: **I often wish (guiltily) that Amelia had been with Sethos – but that's blasphemy, because I can never bear to see Amelia and Emerson apart. Blasphemy. I think I'm the only one who really didn't like the scene in_ Lion_. Thank you of course, dear.

**Reicheru: **Don't you dare go fangirlish on me, darlin'. Nefret's a lovely one, non? Ha. I knew you'd fall for Sethos's trap. I didn't really like Margaret at first, of course – but you'll get used to her. She kinda grows on you.

**Angel: **Fifteen roses means you're sorry – and I'm sorry I haven't replied to your letter for so long. I'm getting lazy with correspondence.

**Manveri Mirkiel: **Did you really guess? Reicheru didn't. Ah well. Of course you knew Sethos was the MC. How many times have I sung it in your ear? Margaret explains herself in this chapter. She's an intrepid journalist – that's all you need to know.

**Sapphire Dragon: **Thank you oh-so-much! I'd like to be able to order books like you, but I have limited credit. Maybe if I force Rukuelle to let me tutor her in Science for ten dollars an hour…

**Durga Maat 666: **I haven't read Serpent, which is a matter of great chagrin to me. The bloody bookstore won't sell it. They won't sell Guardian either. You've read it, haven't you? Oh, I'm so jealous. Thanks for the website – though I haven't gone to it yet. My computer has a funny sound system that needs fixing.

Some short explanation: It has always irked me that MPM never fully explored the development of Sethos's relationship with Margaret Minton. I thought it was an interesting relationship. If they went from daoing the other to dating each other in two books' time, _something _must have happened in between. I intend to document that something for myself.

I own naught. MPM and Gods own. Abbreviation. Fullstop.

**3. An Unexpected Interruption**

_Manuscript Collection M_

Three months ago, I would have died to be here.

Three months from then – now, I was bored.

I had once laboured under the impression that France was a war zone. Once in France, I had realised that only specific regions were war zones. Paris was not one of these. Paris was where I was stationed.

What's the point of being a war correspondent if the only thing you can do is interview shellshocked civilians?

I did not want to interview shellshocked civilians. I wanted to be on the frontlines, interviewing soldiers fresh from the trenches. I might even get to have a close brush with death-by-a-grenade. I'm sure my readers would love that.

The reason why I couldn't do that, which I had found out indirectly from my superiors at the war department, was because I was a woman.

"But it's not like I'm going to do any_ fighting_," I argued.

The person in charge there, whose eminently forgettable name I have forgotten, hummed and hawed. "Miss Minton, you must understand that the frontlines are dangerous."

"I don't care!" I exclaimed. "I'm perfectly fine with danger. It makes for good reviews."

"Miss Minton…you must understand that we, well, erm, cannot allow, erm, well, a…"

"Oh," I said. "I see. It's because I'm a woman, isn't it? War correspondents have to be male. Well, I'm sorry I didn't see that, and that I've been taking up so much of your time unconsciously imposing my feminist views upon your person. Good day to you, Mr…well, good day."

I went back to my apartment in a fine temper. I had to use up the last of my tea ration to calm myself down. I owed my editor across the channel an article, which I had vowed to finish by today. Even though it wasn't a very sensational article – just an 'insight on rationing schedules'. I sat, sipping my tea and typing away, while my mind kept attempting to escape the confines of rationing by brainstorming irrational ideas on how I could smuggle myself onto the frontlines. I could obtain a uniform without much difficulty (I have my sources) and try to see how far I could go in disguise as a soldier. Not very far, I'd warrant. Or maybe I could disguise myself as a Red Cross volunteer.

I dragged my mind back to my article. My last method of getting out there was to prove myself a tireless, competent and consistent reporter – which meant finishing this article by this evening so that I could send it over next morning.

It was too late. Thinking about disguise had led me to start thinking about him.

I hoped that the Emersons weren't still under the impression that we had run away together. Technically we had, but that was because I had no idea how to get to the train station by myself in the dark.

It had been very thoughtful of him to include me in the invitation, though.

_I recalled the night after the Christmas dinner. I was lying in bed, trying to think of how I could leave the Castle without seeming rude to Mrs. Vandergelt, or to Amelia, when I heard the rattle of gravel on my window. _

_I jumped up. Journalists are always on the lookout for this sort of thing – it generally leads to a good story. _

_He was standing outside innocuously, in one of the less conspicuous disguises, bundle in hand. "Sorry for disturbing your rest, Margaret, but I happen to be running away. Care to join me?"_

_It was rather sudden. I pride myself on being practical at that point in time. "Where are you going?"_

_"The train station. Where are you going?"_

_He had already assumed I was running away too. I might as well, I decided with a sigh. It would solve a lot of small problems. _

_I threw my things into a couple of bags and went back to the window. He was still there, half-shadowed in the darkness. "Throw your things down," he called, "and then jump yourself."_

_"I suppose you'll be catching me," I responded doubtfully as I tossed a bag down. _

_He grinned and caught it deftly, putting it down to receive the next one. "No guarantees."_

_"No guarantees," I laughed, and let go of the windowsill. _

_To my surprise, when we came around the corner, the Professor was waiting there for us. He had two of the Arabs saddled and ready. _

_"You know where to leave them," he said. _

_His brother nodded. He had already strapped the bundle to the saddle and mounted the horse in one fluid leap. He was almost as good as Ramses, I noted. I had to use the mounting block. _

_My companion directed the horse towards the open gate. He turned back to face Emerson. "Thank you for this, brother," he said quietly. "I left Nefret a little present. À bientot."_

_"I should hope not," muttered Emerson, and locked the gate behind us. _

_I followed his horse to the railroad track, where we left both animals and walked to the train station. Once we were in the midnight crowd, he turned to me and said, "You have enough money for a ticket to Cairo, I hope."_

_"How do you know I'm going to Cairo?"_

_He gave me another of those supercilious grins of his, the ones that make me want to slap him. "It's my business to know things. The Master hears all and sees all, remember. Well, goodbye, Margaret. I don't think I'll see you again. For your sake, I hope not."_

_He was gone before I could ask him what that meant, diffusing into the ever-present station crowd. I didn't follow. I knew that it would be in vain to try catching him, ever._

I fell back into reality with a start. The tea had gone cold to the dregs. I cursed my daydreaming propensity and went back to work with a vengeance.

I had been working for ten minutes when the next distraction came, in the form of the doorbell ringing, and promptly derailed my train of thought.

I swore. It wasn't very ladylike, but I was at the end of my tether. The concierge was simply obsessed with room service. I had tried telling her countless times that I can take care of my own apartment, to no avail. I slid the sheet back into the typewriter with such vigor that it ripped, stamped my foot and marched out in a blazing rage. I flung open the door, all ready to give that concierge a piece of my mind.

"I said, I don't want room service! I want to finish this manuscript by today, and I can't do it if you keep coming up and insisting on cleaning……"

I froze. My mind went blank. It was _him_.

Sethos was leaning in the doorway – _posing_ in the doorway, damn him – with his trademark supercilious smile spreading across his face. Seeing _him_, of all people, here, right on my very doorstep, was electrifying. Or perhaps the word would be electrocuting.

I don't remember what I spouted then. I assume it was fairly daft.

Sethos's smile did not twitch one jot. "Hello, Margaret. Don't mind if we come in?"

My hand instantly itched to slap him for his audacity. I fought it back fiercely. Slapping people is a bad habit, as Amelia had once told me.

Sethos took advantage of my internal skirmish to flow fluidly past my arm and into my flat. I have never seen anyone break and enter like that man – which is saying a lot, because breaking and entering is a journalist's business. Aggravation is necessary if you want an interview.

As a matter of fact, it was under those circumstances that I had encountered him. I had marched into an Arab chieftain's palace demanding an interview; he had climbed in through the window to – well, I still wasn't entirely clear why he had gone there in the first place. Whatever his reason, he had jeopardised his own mission to save me from my immoral interviewee. That was the good thing. The bad thing was that after that, I had fallen in love with him.

Fortunately that problem was solved on our second meeting. As Amelia would say, there is nothing like close proximity to destroy any romance. I instantly fell out of love with him. Severe disillusionment. And now our relationship was, at the very best, exceedingly tenuous.

I see I have gotten out of point again. It seems to be an increasingly bad habit. Back to my narrative.

Sethos wandered in and sat down in the nearest armchair as if _he_ owned the place. I opened my mouth to say something biting, when I saw Ramses and Nefret as well. I _distinctly _remembered that they had been in Egypt the last time I saw them – and, unlike certain persons, had stayed there.

"Oh, dear," I said despondently.

"It was his decision to come here," pointed out Ramses unhelpfully.

Just like men, always pushing the blame. "You may as well come in," I sighed, standing back to let them pass. I turned to follow them, and got the second shock of the day.

There was another individual seated in my sitting room – and I was fairly sure I wasn't acquainted with this one. She was dressed in a leopard-skin and had the dark skin of a Middle-Eastern. I was also fairly sure I hadn't seen her come in.

Seeing my open-mouthed gaze, she rose and clapped her hands to her heart in a strange gesture. "I am Seshat of the Nedjer, Patron Goddess of Writing. I greet you." She inclined her head, and then looked up again. "You are the Woman who Seeks Secrets, are you not?"

"I suppose," I said dazedly. "If you want tea, then that's too bad, because I've just finished my last tea ration. What do you want here?"

"We are In Need," replied Sethos, emphasising the last two words, "of a place where we can talk safely and freely. Your place was the only one I could think of at that moment. Like the roses?"

I looked down. Somehow in the last minute or so, a bunch of roses had appeared in my hands. They stared wiltingly up at me.

"If we're interrupting whatever you were doing," went on Sethos dismissively, "you can go on with it, we won't bother you. We just want to use the sitting room."

"You _know_ I can't get on with it now," I snapped, and marched off into my tiny kitchen to put the roses in the sink.

When I came back, Seshat the so-called goddess was talking. "……and the priest trapped us in the Void."

"The who?" asked Nefret.

"Imhotep, the priest," explained Seshat patiently. "As I was saying, he trapped us in the Void. He did it with utmost cunning, so that somehow the only time we could reach outside the Void was the time _before _he was first resurrected."

"And why did he go to so much trouble to do that?" drawled Ramses. I could see he wasn't utterly convinced.

"Because of Rick O'Connell," said Seshat. "He knew that if he didn't escape into the past _before_ he was resurrected, we would call on Rick O'Connell to destroy him again. Since we cannot call on him now, we called on you instead."

"So we're a secondary choice."

Seshat gave Ramses an indignant glance. "I should not put it that way," she exclaimed. "We need you, we truly do! Brother of Demons, you were the first name Horus called. Please help us!"

"What's this about?" I asked, seating myself between Sethos and Nefret.

"Some divine call, I believe," said Ramses. "Seshat here is asking us to go to the Underworld and save the gods of Egypt. You know, technically I'm a Catholic."

Seshat turned to Sethos imploringly. "You will come at least, will you not? Set told me you would."

"He's right," admitted Sethos grudgingly. "I have no choice on that."

"Why?" inquired Nefret. "You haven't explained to us yet about that business with the cartouche."

"Long story. I'd really rather not elaborate."

Nefret gave him a piercing look. From what I'd seen last year, Sethos's niece was probably one of the only women in the world who could force him into a confession. Her interrogation techniques included torture with hypodermic needles.

Sethos sighed theatrically. "Oh, very well. As dear little Nefret wishes. Set and I have an agreement."

Ramses's eyebrows tilted at crazy angles. "You've met Set before? Set the _god_?"

Sethos nodded reluctantly.

"How?" demanded both Ramses and Nefret.

"It was quite a long time ago," began Sethos by way of explanation. "Let's see…sixteen years? Seventeen? Anyway, we met under strange circumstances. He had the power to give me something I really needed. I swore mortal service to him if he would return it to me."

"And what was that something?" asked Nefret sweetly.

Sethos opened his mouth to reply, and then his hand abruptly shot out and neatly tore out the page of my notebook that I had been scribbling on. I hadn't even noticed myself. Another bad habit of mine.

"Don't do that, Margaret." His eyebrows drew close together in annoyance. "I know where that's going to end up."

"I would never publish anything – " I began hotly.

"You would. I don't doubt your scruples." Suddenly he leapt up, looking horrified. "Damn! I'd forgotten all about the War Office!"

"War Office?" I said alertly.

Sethos clapped his hand over his mouth, shooting Ramses an alarmed look. "Where's the nearest telegraph office?" he asked instead.

"Just down the street," I answered. "What were you saying about the War Office?"

"What you don't know won't kill you," muttered Sethos, disappearing out of the door. It slammed after him.

"What was that about?" I ventured, in the silence that followed.

Ramses shifted his weight uneasily. "What you don't know…"

"…won't kill me," I finished for him. "Don't worry, I'll try dragging it out of him when he comes back."

"If he does," muttered Ramses under the breath.

I was beginning to get the feeling that I didn't understand quite a lot of what was going on. I didn't like that. Journalists prefer being in the know.

Seshat decided to renew her attack on Ramses. "Tell me why you will not take up this quest," she persisted.

"It sounds like the War Office all over again, with divine implications."

Seshat didn't understand that any more than I did. Nefret elucidated for him. "He's sick and tired of having to take risks for other people, who won't do it themselves and who won't show him the proper appreciation."

"We will appreciate it!" argued Seshat. "You will both be honoured beyond the dreams of any mortal…"

"Correct that," amended Nefret hastily. "He's sick and tired of having to take risks, end of sentence."

"Is he afraid?" asked Seshat softly.

Ramses sat up straight, but it was Nefret who leapt to her feet, fists clenched, eyes blazing. "How _dare_ you use such an approach! I'll…I'll…"

"Sit down, darling." Ramses laid a hand on her arm. Nefret allowed herself to be pulled back down, but she threw Seshat a glare that, if looks could kill, would have dissected the goddess horribly.

"I am sorry I said that," admitted Seshat. "I did not mean it to sound so…so insulting. What I suggest is that you and your distinguished family follow me down to the Duat. I shall be able, perhaps, to draw a seeing pool for you – then you may speak with my lord Amun-Re and the others. They will show you how important this mission is – not only to us, but to the balance of the entire world. After that, perhaps you will be able to choose better."

I held my breath and watched Ramses's impassive face. I felt like a spectator at a ball game, watching the ball suspended in mid-air and wondering whether it would be better for the player to catch it, or for it to fall instead and strike the ground.

"Don't," whispered Nefret.

Ramses's mouth cracked open. "It won't hurt to take a look around."

"Please," entreated Nefret. Two crystalline tears appeared in synchrony at the corners of her cornflower eyes and rolled with tangible grief down her flushed cheeks.

Ramses sat up, alarmed. "Nefret, don't you dare try that on me!"

"I don't want to play fair," sobbed Nefret. "Ramses, promise me you won't give in."

Ramses gave a long, loud sigh, and turned back to Seshat. "Very well. The final decision will rest with my parents. If they forbid me to go, I won't."

Seshat looked doubtful, but nodded reluctantly. Nefret seemed to prefer that; she wiped away her tears and gave her husband a watery smile. He responded by stroking her red-gold head tenderly.

It was a touching scene, and I was loath to interrupt; but I did anyway. "I'd like to ask a favour," I began, leaning forward.

Seshat turned to me quizzically. "They don't seem very keen to go," I went on, "but I am."

"Why?" asked Seshat.

I shrugged. "It sounds interesting."

"It is not," stated Ramses, "a journalist venture. I'm sure the gods will come down quite hard on illegal publications."

"I said, I'm not going to publish – "

There was a loud explosion outside.

The very foundations of the building shook. I found myself thrown flat upon the ground. Raising my head, I smashed it on the table edge and cursed violently. Ramses and Nefret had also been thrown from their seats. They were now fighting vehemently to shield the other. Seshat alone remained seated, though she was clutching the upholstery in sheer terror.

The door burst open, and Sethos staggered in. Some sort of small missiles had struck his face: there were several thin lines along his forehead, dripping blood. He must have changed disguises before going into the telegraph office – the fair-haired wig and the spectacles on his long nose were askew.

"That wasn't you, was it?" asked Nefret tentatively from ground level.

"It's very unkind of you to attribute every disturbance in the vicinity to my doing," retorted Sethos, clinging to the doorpost to keep his balance. "Although I can't deny you have good reason to. No, it wasn't me. It was the Germans."

"How do you know?" inquired Ramses, rising and helping his wife to her feet.

"I know a German shell when it blows up the row of houses directly in front of me," elucidated Sethos. "They're coming this way. Thought I might warn you."

I scrambled up and dashed to the window. Framed by the sill was a sight that chilled my heart – four silver zeppelins, glinting in the afternoon sun, hovering across the scenic view of Paris – not so scenic now, what with the clouds of ugly smoke billowing up from various streets and the shrill screams ripping through the arid air. Sethos was right; the pretty silver balloons were floating in the direction of the window.

Another explosion rocked the apartment. I clung to the windowsill desperately to avoid falling a second time.

"Where's the nearest bomb shelter?" yelled Ramses.

"Three streets away," I gasped. "We'll never make it."

The shells were now coming in thick droves. Yet another explosion made the furniture shudder. Sethos replied with a few well-chosen unprintables that would have made his brother envious.

Nefret seemed to be rational under the circumstances. She walked over to the trembling Seshat. "Seshat," she asked, "do you think you could help us get out of here?"

"Yes," fortified Ramses, "you brought us here, you can get us away."

Seshat looked scared stiff, but she nodded bravely and spread out her hands. Nefret took hold of one, and held on to Ramses with her other hand. The next explosion was even closer, but she managed to keep her balance.

Sethos took Seshat's other hand. He held out a hand to me. Wordlessly I left the window and took it, as an explosion rattled the surroundings and flung the world into jitters. His hand was callused and warm, and seemed like the only solid thing in the middle of a world of explosions and panic.

Seshat's mouth was moving. Then she let out a thin gasp and cried: "I can't do it!"

"You can," Nefret assured her, and her voice was a comfort to hear in the wild panic. Seshat felt it too. She swallowed, straightened, and said the words again.

I felt the ground being yanked from beneath my feet. For a moment I thought it was another explosion; and then I realised that we were travelling, through the walls and the explosions and the war, through time and space. I could see the faint ghosts of ibis birds wreathing about our feet. I couldn't seem to breathe, for we were moving too fast. I felt Sethos's fingers tighten around mine with an iron force that would have made me gasp, if I had had any air to gasp with.

We landed in a sand dune.

Sand is one of the most unpleasant things you can have in your mouth. At the moment I had quite a lot of it. I choked violently and spat it out.

"I know you don't like sand in your mouth," said a familiarly exasperating voice calmly, "but you could try spitting in some other direction. That was my face."

"Sorry," I muttered, scrambling up and trying to swat the sand off Sethos's tightly shut eyelids.

"You're getting more of it in," snapped Sethos irritably. "Go away."

I glared at him and stood up, brushing sand off my clothes. The bright Egyptian sky blazed overhead. Ramses and Nefret were lying sprawled side by side at the foot of the dune. An outstretched hand with a seven-pointed star wand in it denoted the position of Seshat.

"Well," remarked Ramses, who seemed to have been spared a mouthful of sand. "If that hasn't convinced us that you are a goddess, I don't know what will."

"Thanks be to thou," came a pallid murmur from the other side of the dune.

Sethos stood up as well, picking grains of sand off his shirt with fastidious distaste. "Good old Egypt again, I see. What shall we do now?"

Ramses sighed from his prostrate position. "We had better be getting back to the house. We're late for dinner, and I dread what Mother will do to us when we get back."

"Of course," said Sethos. "Dear Amelia. How could I forget?"

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Subjects over Supper**

In which we meet the formidable Mr. and Mrs. Emerson at long last, Emerson bawls at almost everyone and Seshat deals with baked beans and mashed potato.


End file.
